


Hands to Yourself

by anneapocalypse



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse/pseuds/anneapocalypse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Awkward middle-of-the-night jerking off while totally not listening to each other or being into each other at all, <i>shut up.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands to Yourself

It’s a slow waking, slipping from dream to the hazy dark behind his eyelids to the real dark of the room as his eyes slide open, and at first Wash isn’t sure if he’s awake at all, let alone why. Awareness prickles gradually at his mind, awareness at having slipped out of a dream he can’t remember but one that’s left him -

Oh.

Wash shifts onto his back in the dark, holding a half-breath and listening to be sure his bunkmate’s out good and cold, and that’s when he hears the exhale from the far side of the tiny room, an exhale that sounds suspiciously like someone releasing a held breath while trying to stay quiet.

Takes one to know one.

Wash sinks into the mattress, still as he is hard, uncomfortably aware that the bare sound of that breath has him even harder, and lets his own breath out in a long, controlled interval. Draws it back in. Deep, even. Sleep breathing. York always tells him he tosses and kicks all night anyway. Teases him about the things he apparently mumbles in his sleep, not that he’d know whether -

A more distinct sound has his breath catching in his throat. The unmistakable drag of wet skin on skin.

Oh god.

His cock twitches under the thermal blanket tented over him and Wash swallows.

Hears it again.

_Damn it, York._

He can’t even fucking _spit_ without making noise. Wash works his right hand up from under the blanket as silently as he can manage and runs his tongue over his palm. The dark feels almost transparent, and he can still _hear_ the slick sounds from his friend’s bunk, he feels a hot flush spreading from ears to toes and goddammit he’s going to fucking _kill_ York in the morning. Kill him. Not tell him _why_ he’s killing him, but definitely kill him.

He slides his hand down and tucks under the hem of his boxers, meaning to just wrap his hand around himself for some relief, wait until York’s done and drifted off and then finish himself off quick, but god, who’s he kidding, it’s not enough. He’s throbbing and fighting not to groan and now he’s fucking _picturing_ it, York’s hand down his pants and his head tipped back and mouth slack and eyes closed and yeah, he’s going to murder him for this. Throw him out the airlock. The sigh that escapes from the opposite bed, _fuck you you fucking bastard_ it’s like he’s not even _trying_ to be quiet anymore -

Wash gives in and drags his hand tight from base to tip and the relief is almost too much and he lets loose a shuddery breath and oh fucking hell there’s no way York didn’t hear that and also _how long does it fucking take to finish you asshole, you were at this before I even woke up_ -

York sighs again, even heavier this time, and Wash squeezes helplessly around the head of his cock, desperately trying to hold in the moan rising in his chest. It comes out in a strangled breath, and he half wants to just come and be done with it and half wants to try and hold out but god those sounds from York and the image of him with his cock gripped in his hand is a little too easy for Wash to picture - well they’ve been bunkmates for a while and it’s not like you can help -

There’s a tight, throaty grunt from the other bunk.

_Oh, fuck you. Fuck you so much._

Fine, if he wants to play like that. _Fine_. Wash lets go long enough to pull his hand up and spit in his palm, fuck being quiet at this point because it’s not like York’s making any effort over there. He tightens up his grip and strokes faster, back arching against the mattress a little as he works himself closer, and while it does occur to him to try and hold out longer just out of spite, it doesn’t occur to him quite soon enough and he’s spilling over his hand in hot pulses with an unrestrained groan.

A hard gasp from York’s bunk hits his ears as he’s sinking bonelessly into the mattress, trying to catch his breath. It could be just the blood roaring in his ears, but he could swear he hears a snicker follow.

_Dead. Airlock. You fucking asshole._

Wash wipes his hand uncomfortably on his boxers and rolls over to face the wall.


End file.
